A Little, Aloud

by Angela Macmillan

  It was the chalk that attracted me so much. It was a long, slender stick of vivid yellow. I had never seen anything like it before, and it showed up so well against the black surface of the slate that I was fascinated by it as much as if it had been a stick of gold.

  Suddenly I wanted desperately to do what my sister was doing. Then – without thinking or knowing exactly what I was doing, I reached out and took the stick of chalk out of my sister’s hand – with my left foot.

  I do not know why I used my left foot to do this. It is a puzzle to many people as well as to myself, for, although I had displayed a curious interest in my toes at an early age, I had never attempted before this to use either of my feet in any way. They could have been as useless to me as were my hands. That day, however, my left foot, apparently on its own volition, reached out and very impolitely took the chalk out of my sister’s hand.

  I held it tightly between my toes, and, acting on an impulse, made a wild sort of scribble with it on the slate. Next moment I stopped, a bit dazed, surprised, looking down at the stick of yellow chalk stuck between my toes, not knowing what to do with it next, hardly knowing how it got there. Then I looked up and became aware that everyone had stopped talking and were staring at me silently. Nobody stirred. Mona, her black curls framing her chubby little face, stared at me with great big eyes and open mouth. Across the open hearth, his face lit by flames, sat my father, leaning forward, hands outspread on his knees, his shoulders tense. I felt the sweat break out on my forehead.

  My mother came in from the pantry with a steaming pot in her hand. She stopped midway between the table and the fire, feeling the tension flowing through the room. She followed their stare and saw me, in the corner. Her eyes looked from my face down to my foot, with the chalk gripped between my toes. She put down the pot.

  Then she crossed over to me and knelt down beside me, as she had done so many times before.

  ‘I’ll show you what to do with it, Chris,’ she said, very slowly and in a queer, jerky way, her face flushed as if with some inner excitement.

  Taking another piece of chalk from Mona, she hesitated, then very deliberately drew, on the floor in front of me, the single letter ‘A’.

  ‘Copy that,’ she said, looking steadily at me. ‘Copy it, Christy.’

  I couldn’t.

  I looked about me, looked around at the faces that were turned towards me, tense, excited faces that were at that moment frozen, immobile, eager, waiting for a miracle in their midst.

  The stillness was profound. The room was full of flame and shadow that danced before my eyes and lulled my taut nerves into a sort of waking sleep. I could hear the sound of the water-tap dripping in the pantry, the loud ticking of the clock on the mantelshelf, and the soft hiss and crackle of the logs on the open hearth.

  I tried again. I put out my foot and made a wild jerking stab with the chalk which produced a very crooked line and nothing more. Mother held the slate steady for me.

  ‘Try again, Chris,’ she whispered in my ear. ‘Again.’

  I did. I stiffened my body and put my left foot out again, for the third time. I drew one side of the letter. I drew half the other side. Then the stick of chalk broke and I was left with a stump. I wanted to fling it away and give up. Then I felt my mother’s hand on my shoulder. I tried once more. Out went my foot. I shook, I sweated and strained every muscle. My hands were so tightly clenched that my fingernails bit into the flesh. I set my teeth so hard that I nearly pierced my lower lip. Everything in the room swam till the faces around me were mere patches of white. But – I drew it – the letter ‘A’. There it was on the floor before me. Shaky, with awkward, wobbly sides and a very uneven centre line. But it was the letter ‘A’. I looked up. I saw my mother’s face for a moment, tears on her cheeks. Then my father stooped down and hoisted me on to his shoulder.

  I had done it! It had started – the thing that was to give my mind its chance of expressing itself. True, I couldn’t speak with my lips, but now I would speak through something more lasting than spoken words – written words.

  That one letter, scrawled on the floor with a broken bit of yellow chalk gripped between my toes, was my road to a new world, my key to mental freedom. It was to provide a source of relaxation to the tense, taut thing that was me which panted for expression behind a twisted mouth.

  A NOISELESS PATIENT SPIDER

  Walt Whitman

  A noiseless patient spider,

  I mark’d where on a little promontory it stood isolated;

  Mark’d how to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,

  It launched forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,

  Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

  And you O my Soul where you stand,

  Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,

  Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,

  Till the bridge you will need, be form’d, till the ductile anchor hold,

  Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my Soul.

  READING NOTES

  Several members of a community reading group had seen the film of the book with Daniel Day-Lewis playing Christy Brown and talked briefly about that performance. David told us that his brother had cerebral palsy. He spoke proudly about his brother’s achievements but confirmed how hard it had been for his parents and indeed for the whole family. Everyone was moved by the chapter and had nothing but praise for the mother. ‘There are times’, said Patricia, ‘when you need a strength that seems beyond you and somehow you find it, like faith. Christy Brown’s mother,’ she added, ‘had nothing except faith and fierce love; this, not the disability, is his inheritance.’

  Coming after the powerful memoir, the poem takes on a special resonance and prompts talk about the connections with the story and about what the last words ‘O my soul’, might mean. Indeed, how do you define the word soul? Some readers have remembered the story of Robert Bruce and the spider: how Bruce took heart from the spider’s refusal to give up trying. This is perhaps another way of linking the poem to the story.

  Theirs Not to Reason Why

  BLACK BEAUTY

  (AN OLD WAR HORSE, CHAPTER 34)

  Anna Sewell

  (approximate reading time 11 minutes)

  This famous story, which was not originally written for children, is the autobiography of a horse. At this point in his life Black Beauty is sharing a stable with an old stallion who is a veteran of the Crimean War and the Charge of the Light Brigade . . .

  Captain had been broken in and trained for an army horse; his first owner was an officer of cavalry going out to the Crimean War. He said he quite enjoyed the training with all the other horses, trotting together, turning together, to the right hand or the left, halting at the word of command, or dashing forward at full speed at the sound of the trumpet or signal of the officer. He was, when young, a dark, dappled iron grey, and considered very handsome. His master, a young, high-spirited gentleman, was very fond of him, and treated him from the first with the greatest care and kindness. He told me he thought the life of an army horse was very pleasant; but when it came to being sent abroad over the sea in a great ship, he almost changed his mind.

  ‘That part of it,’ said he, ‘was dreadful! Of course we could not walk off the land into the ship; so they were obliged to put strong straps under our bodies, and then we were lifted off our legs in spite of our struggles, and were swung through the air over the water, to the deck of the great vessel. There we were placed in small close stalls, and never for a long time saw the sky, or were able to stretch our legs. The ship sometimes rolled about in high winds, and we were knocked about, and felt bad enough. However, at last it came to an end, and we were hauled up, and swung over again to the land; we were very glad, and snorted and neighed for joy, when we once more felt firm ground under our feet.

  ‘We soon found that the country we had come to was very different from our own and that
we had many hardships to endure besides the fighting; but many of the men were so fond of their horses that they did everything they could to make them comfortable in spite of snow, wet, and all things out of order.’

  ‘But what about the fighting?’ said I, ‘was not that worse than anything else?’

  ‘Well,’ said he, ‘I hardly know; we always liked to hear the trumpet sound, and to be called out, and were impatient to start off, though sometimes we had to stand for hours, waiting for the word of command; and when the word was given we used to spring forward as gayly and eagerly as if there were no cannon balls, bayonets, or bullets. I believe so long as we felt our rider firm in the saddle, and his hand steady on the bridle, not one of us gave way to fear, not even when the terrible bomb-shells whirled through the air and burst into a thousand pieces.

  ‘I, with my noble master, went into many actions together without a wound; and though I saw horses shot down with bullets, pierced through with lances, and gashed with fearful sabre-cuts; though we left them dead on the field, or dying in the agony of their wounds, I don’t think I feared for myself. My master’s cheery voice, as he encouraged his men, made me feel as if he and I could not be killed. I had such perfect trust in him that while he was guiding me I was ready to charge up to the very cannon’s mouth. I saw many brave men cut down, many fall mortally wounded from their saddles. I had heard the cries and groans of the dying, I had cantered over ground slippery with blood, and frequently had to turn aside to avoid trampling on wounded man or horse, but, until one dreadful day, I had never felt terror; that day I shall never forget.’

  Here old Captain paused for awhile and drew a long breath; I waited, and he went on.

  ‘It was one autumn morning, and as usual, an hour before daybreak our cavalry had turned out, ready caparisoned for the day’s work, whether it might be fighting or waiting. The men stood by their horses waiting, ready for orders. As the light increased there seemed to be some excitement among the officers; and before the day was well begun we heard the firing of the enemy’s guns.

  ‘Then one of the officers rode up and gave the word for the men to mount, and in a second every man was in his saddle, and every horse stood expecting the touch of the rein, or the pressure of his rider’s heels, all animated, all eager; but still we had been trained so well that, except by the champing of our bits, and the restive tossing of our heads from time to time, it could not be said that we stirred.

  ‘My dear master and I were at the head of the line, and as all sat motionless and watchful, he took a little stray lock of my mane which had turned over on the wrong side, laid it over on the right, and smoothed it down with his hand; then patting my neck, he said, ‘We shall have a day of it to-day, Bayard, my beauty; but we’ll do our duty as we have done.’ He stroked my neck that morning more, I think, than he had ever done before; quietly on and on, as if he were thinking of something else. I loved to feel his hand on my neck, and arched my crest proudly and happily; but I stood very still, for I knew all his moods, and when he liked me to be quiet, and when gay.

  ‘I cannot tell all that happened on that day, but I will tell of the last charge that we made together; it was across a valley right in front of the enemy’s cannon. By this time we were well used to the roar of heavy guns, the rattle of musket fire, and the flying of shot near us; but never had I been under such a fire as we rode through on that day. From the right, from the left, and from the front, shot and shell poured in upon us. Many a brave man went down, many a horse fell, flinging his rider to the earth; many a horse without a rider ran wildly out of the ranks; then terrified at being alone, with no hand to guide him, came pressing in among his old companions, to gallop with them to the charge.

  ‘Fearful as it was, no one stopped, no one turned back. Every moment the ranks were thinned, but as our comrades fell, we closed in to keep them together; and instead of being shaken or staggered in our pace our gallop became faster and faster as we neared the cannon.

  ‘My master, my dear master! was cheering on his comrades with his right arm raised on high, when one of the balls whizzing close to my head struck him. I felt him stagger with the shock, though he uttered no cry; I tried to check my speed, but the sword dropped from his right hand, the rein fell loose from the left, and sinking backward from the saddle he fell to the earth; the other riders swept past us, and by the force of their charge I was driven from the spot where he fell.

  ‘I wanted to keep my place by his side and not leave him under that rush of horses’ feet, but it was in vain; and now without a master or a friend I was alone on that great slaughter ground; then fear took hold on me, and I trembled as I had never trembled before; and I too, as I had seen other horses do, tried to join in the ranks and gallop with them; but I was beaten off by the swords of the soldiers. Just then a soldier whose horse had been killed under him caught at my bridle and mounted me, and with this new master I was again going forward; but our gallant company was cruelly overpowered, and those who remained alive after the fierce fight for the guns came galloping back over the same ground. Some of the horses had been so badly wounded that they could scarcely move from the loss of blood; other noble creatures were trying on three legs to drag themselves along, and others were struggling to rise on their fore feet, when their hind legs had been shattered by shot. After the battle the wounded men were brought in and the dead were buried.’

  ‘And what about the wounded horses?’ I said; ‘were they left to die?’

  ‘No, the army farriers went over the field with their pistols and shot all that were ruined; some that had only slight wounds were brought back and attended to, but the greater part of the noble, willing creatures that went out that morning never came back! In our stables there was only about one in four that returned.

  ‘I never saw my dear master again. I believe he fell dead from the saddle. I never loved any other master so well. I went into many other engagements, but was only once wounded, and then not seriously; and when the war was over I came back again to England, as sound and strong as when I went out.’

  I said, ‘I have heard people talk about war as if it was a very fine thing.’

  ‘Ah!’ said he, ‘I should think they never saw it. No doubt it is very fine when there is no enemy, when it is just exercise and parade and sham fight. Yes, it is very fine then; but when thousands of good brave men and horses are killed or crippled for life, it has a very different look.’

  ‘Do you know what they fought about?’ said I.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘that is more than a horse can understand, but the enemy must have been awfully wicked people, if it was right to go all that way over the sea on purpose to kill them.’

  THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE

  Alfred Tennyson

  Half a league, half a league,

  Half a league onward,

  All in the valley of Death

  Rode the six hundred.

  ‘Forward, the Light Brigade!

  Charge for the guns!’ he said;

  Into the valley of Death

  Rode the six hundred.

  ‘Forward, the Light Brigade!’

  Was there a man dismayed?

  Not though the soldier knew

  Some one had blundered:

  Their’s not to make reply,

  Their’s not to reason why,

  Their’s but to do and die:

  Into the valley of Death

  Rode the six hundred.

  Cannon to right of them,

  Cannon to left of them,

  Cannon in front of them

  Volleyed and thundered;

  Stormed at with shot and shell,

  Boldly they rode and well,

  Into the jaws of Death,

  Into the mouth of Hell

  Rode the six hundred.

  Flashed all their sabres bare,

  Flashed as they turned in air

  Sabring the gunners there,

  Charging an army, while

  All the world
wondered:

  Plunged in the battery-smoke

  Right through the line they broke;

  Cossack and Russian

  Reeled from the sabre-stroke

  Shattered and sundered.

  Then they rode back, but not,

  Not the six hundred.

  Cannon to right of them,

  Cannon to left of them,

  Cannon behind them

  Volleyed and thundered;

  Stormed at with shot and shell,

  While horse and hero fell,

  They that had fought so well

  Came through the jaws of Death,

  Back from the mouth of Hell,

  All that was left of them,

  Left of six hundred.

  When can their glory fade?

  O the wild charge they made!

  All the world wondered.

  Honour the charge they made!

  Honour the Light Brigade,

  Noble six hundred!

  READING NOTES

  In a day centre for the elderly, most of the group remembered Black Beauty from childhood. Discussion ranged from Florence Nightingale to the horror of horses in battle, to memories of going riding. The group thought it was a good anti-war story and were particularly struck by the final few lines: ‘Do you know what they fought about?’ said I. ‘No,’ he said, ‘that is more than a horse can understand, but the enemy must have been awfully wicked people, if it was right to go all that way over the sea on purpose to kill them.’

  Although not many group members remembered any historical details of the actual Charge of the Light Brigade, they found the poem very descriptive and the session finished with everyone reading the poem aloud and together, making quite a din.

  Men Were Deceivers Ever